


Tempus Fugit

by ElDiablito_SF



Series: Snippets in Time [15]
Category: DUMAS Alexandre - Works, Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Nature's Lube, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, first we take a meander through the macabre mind of Aramis.  And then he becomes consumed with lust.  The rest is interspersed with possibly witty repartee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempus Fugit

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Have I mentioned the graphic gayness and such? There is full frontal and full dorsal sexy-time, with undertones (or overtones) of (fairly mild) BDSM. Men behaving hornily - what else is new? Also, Aramis says some pretty dirty things. Like, really, rap-song dirty.
> 
> (Originally posted on LJ Sept 6, 2010)

 

 

           The Loire wound its way deftly past several flocks of sheep, snaking among the hills and through the valley littered with unobtrusive cottages.  From the banks of her moving waters, one could observe the rising hills, with their scattered forestation, which, most likely, hid a château here and there in the foliage.  From the top of one such hill, elevated among the meadows coated in the freshness of the early spring grass, two horsemen observed the river cutting its way through the terrain.

           They had been there for about a quarter of an hour now, side by side, not speaking, and if one were to say they were lost in thought then it would be more accurate to specify that they were each lost in their own contemplation.  Athos was contemplating the view, or rather the juxtaposition of circumstances surrounding each subsequent occasion of his encountering this view.  It was impossible to tell whether he was seeing the Loire as it was at that moment, a spring of Spring and a source of new beginnings, or as it seemed to him the last time he looked upon it from this hill, a serpentine fiend coming to suffocate him with eternal loneliness.  Aramis, in his turn, had been contemplating Athos.  Eventually, he reached over to take his companion’s hand and pulled the other man towards himself gently, so as to not jar him out of his reverie too abruptly.

           “Have you had enough of looking at beauty for one day?”

           “Luckily for you, I never get tired of looking at beauty.”  Athos accompanied this statement with an enchanting smile and Aramis felt an increased pressure around his fingers.

            “I don’t really know how I’m supposed to respond when you speak to me in such a fashion.”

            “Like a blushing bride?”  Athos suggested, leading Aramis to let go of his hand and shoot him an impertinent look.  Aramis knew that a blushing bride was precisely what he resembled at that moment, and he certainly did _not_ need it pointed out to him.  Oblivious for a moment to his lover’s altering mood, Athos shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and clenched his fingers several times.

            “Then, like a doting wife, allow me to point out that you still haven’t fully recovered from whatever was ailing you at the monastery.”

            “What makes you say that?”

            “It looks like you still have joint pain everywhere in your body.”

            “Drat!  My lover has noticed my decrepitude!”  Athos shot Aramis a look that was a cross between a wounded puppy and a flirty floozy.

            “Don’t be an ass.  You should have given yourself more time to rest.  You’re not as young as you once were, pardon the axiom.”

            “Thank you, kind sir, for reminding me _Tempus fugit_.”

            “I’m trying to help and you… well, you’re being yourself.”  Aramis waved his hand at Athos’s face as if he were shooing a fly.

            “Aramis, I’m only thirty-four years old.”

            “Thirty-four is no longer twenty-seven, though, is it?”

            “How would you know?  You’re not even there yet!”

            “I’m twenty-eight.”

            “Oh…”  Athos doggedly redirected his gaze to his own saddle.

            “Your _other_ lover was the child.”

            “What should I do to make you stop speaking right now?”  Athos had used the low growl to ask this that always wafted of defeat for Aramis.  But he’d be damned if he had come all the way to Blois to allow this prideful, overgrown infant to order him around, Aramis thought bitterly. 

            “Why don’t you just lie down over there and take a nap?”  Aramis indicated a surprisingly enticing patch of grass under some birch trees nearby.

            “That _child_ is only three years your junior,” Athos mumbled, moving, surprisingly obediently towards the grassy knoll.  Hating to admit such a thing aloud, he knew Aramis was right.  At least about the joint pain.

            “Some people just never grow up,” Aramis shrugged.

            “Don’t bait me.  As it happens, I’m very happy you’re here with me right now.”  He eyed the grass suspiciously.  “Why are you trying to get me to take a nap in the middle of the valley, anyways?”

            “Because your hands and your knees are tormenting you right now and I don’t want you to fall out of the saddle before we even get back to the house.  Trust me, your fever was high enough to do a lot of damage.”

            “Trust you?  I’m not sure I’m quite there yet.”

            “I am not going anywhere,” Aramis assured him, dismounting and situating himself on the ground, on top of his riding cloak.  “Come.  Lie down next to me.”  He stretched out his arms and tugged on the corner of his friend’s cape.

            “You are a great accessory to my domains,” Athos stated, settling down into Aramis’s arms.  Aramis snickered and burrowed his face in the curve of the back of his lover’s neck.

            The air was still around them, almost too still, Aramis thought.  If there had at least been more of a breeze, he could stay alert, but as it was, he was afraid that he would be falling asleep as well, and that would deprive of him of one of his favorite activities:  Athos-watching.  He pressed his ear to his friend’s upper back and heard the rhythmic sound of air coursing through the lungs.  Watching his lover sleep was one of the things he had missed the most, oddly enough, when several years earlier he had finally found the strength to leave both Athos’s bed and company for what he thought then would be the last time.  There was a devoutness that he always found to keeping vigil over his lover’s sleeping form, a meditative quality that seemed to teach him more about the man than observing him in his wakeful hours.  There were no walls when Athos slept.  His jaw slackened, his lips fell open and his eyebrows came apart like two spread wings of some bird of prey.  Aramis loved this face, and that mouth, and that swan-like neck, the way it craned and spilled his wavy dark hair all over in some kind of an anti-halo.  There were times when, becoming so completely absorbed in the features of his lover’s sleeping face, Aramis would see those lips move and form one word.  That word was his name.  Aramis did not know what that feeling was in the pit of his stomach when it happened, but it _felt_ like love.  Alone, in his cell at the monastery, he used to make up other reasons for that stirring.  Was it blind ambition to attain that which no one else could attain?  Was it sinful pride in having breached the impregnable walls of a fortress no other man had claimed before? 

            Then, carried somewhere years back in his own mind, Aramis found himself on the edge of a recognizable terror.  A familiar anxiety was beginning to overwhelm him.  A different vision of Athos rose before his eyes, with his face drained of all blood, with the gaping wound in his chest, oozing dark liquid, spilling unabated into his own hands, the lips that he loved to kiss – now turned to deepest indigo, and those eyes – those burning coals of eyes, extinguished, forever.  The repetitive nightmare of clutching this beloved, lifeless corpse to his body, bathing it in an amount of tears that possibly not even Achilles had shed for his Patroclus, and the piercing through the heart by the terrible doubt, that it was all somehow his fault.  Losing him!  Losing him to death, never to see him again, no, that was Aramis’s greatest fear, and the one thing he was not sure he would ever be able to survive.  That thought had consoled him in the end, when he did finally leave, for he knew that at least this way he would never have to see this man die.  And he could carry away with him the memory of his warm, pulsating body, and coral-tinted lips, and the burning cinders of his eyes, that roasted him slowly on a turning spit of _love_.

            Trembling, he pressed his lips to that part of Athos’s neck where he could feel the strongest beating of his blood against the surface of his skin.  Aramis’s elegant pale fingers were running up and down the length of Athos’s hands, handling them gently, as if they were a precious crystal vase, heavy to hold and easily broken.   He traced the veins of his lover’s forearms with the fingertips, pressing into the pulse in his wrists, making sure again and again that the other man was alive.  “Keep breathing,” he whispered, unaware of his own words.  He pressed his lips to Athos’s temples and then into the translucent, pulsating skin of wrists.  Knowing that his lover’s joints had been paining him, he began to absentmindedly massage the part of his arm where the hand met the forearm, thinking back to their initial meeting in the fencing salon, so many years ago, when he found himself watching Athos’s hands long before they had ever locked eyes with each other.  He’d seen this hand run a man through with a single stroke, and it did not tremble.  And yet, it trembled when they touched.  Aramis felt a shiver run through his body.  “For having found you again,” he thought, “What power could ever tear me from your side now?”

            “Aramis,” suddenly, as if answering the unuttered question, Athos whispered from somewhere on the edge of a dream.

            Almost by instinct, Aramis bit the hand he had been holding to his lips this whole time.  Athos wrinkled his nose like a confused dog and cracked open one of his eyes, focusing on his companion suspiciously.

            “Count,” Aramis greeted him.

            “Chevalier,” Athos grunted, still unsure as to why he had been awakened in such a peculiar manner.

            “Do you feel refreshed after your nap?”

            “Why?  Is it time to get back?  Are you feeling ravenous?”

            “In manner of speaking,” Aramis grinned and placed the hand he had been holding on top of the tent that had formed in his trousers.

            “Interesting development.  There appears to be some swelling there,” Athos bit his lip to keep himself from laughing.   “You should put something cold on that.”

            “Your hands usually are.  Pretty cold, that is.”  Aramis very calmly wrapped the hand of Athos around his shaft through the cloth.

            “Well, you know what they say:  cold hands, warm heart.”

            “Who says that?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Then shut your mouth before I fuck it.”

            Contrary to these explicit instructions, the mouth of Athos, in fact, fell wide open in a caricature of profound shock.

            “Why, _Brother_ René!”

            “Forgive me,” Aramis spread his body over that of his friend as if some kind of an animated blanket.  “I know I was just urging you to sleep.  But now I need you to be awake.”  He ran his hands up the length of Athos’s arms, drawing them over the other man’s head, and locking his hands firmly in his grasp and pressed into the ground.

            “And you really cannot wait until we get to a bed?”  Athos asked without any particular shade of protest but with an air of genuine curiosity.

            “We’ve done it in the open air before, don’t be a spoiled brat,” Aramis responded by kissing all along the outline of his lover’s collar bone, tracing the sharper edges with his tongue, and sinking his front teeth gently into the side of the neck, eliciting a whimper.

            “I’m simply trying,” Athos whispered, between small gasps that escaped him as his neck and ear lobes were getting accustomed to becoming another man’s afternoon snack, “to ascertain my situation, given you caught me by surprise.”

            “My desire for you should never catch you by surprise.”

            “I’ll file that under _for future reference_ ,” Athos promised.

            “Do you even want me as much as I want you?” Aramis demanded suddenly, peevishly, lifting his face from the other man’s neck, looking intently into his still sleep-fogged eyes. 

            “A ridiculous question from a ridiculous man,” Athos chortled, and thrust his hips up to make his point. 

            “I see your body, at least, is willing, but I want you to _tell_ me,” Aramis whispered, hoarsely, into the ear of the man he kept pinned to the ground with his own body.

            “Tell you what?” 

            “Tell me everything.”

            “I don’t understand,” Athos felt his eyes open very wide, which he hoped would convey sincerity, even though he had a pretty good idea what his lover wanted from him.

            “Tell me you want me,” Aramis let go of the man’s hands and entwined his fingers in his lover’s hair, pulling him into a deep kiss.  “And tell me _how_ you want me.”

            Athos had seen this Aramis before, and he allowed himself a self-satisfied and knowing smile of a man who understood exactly what he would be getting into.  He knew things would get rough and that he’d probably be covered in bruises for the next week or so.  He remembered those bruises very clearly now, like ghosts from the past, when he could actually make out the purple outline of Aramis’s fingers along the curves of his own hips.  He liked watching them change color every day when he woke up in the morning, as they waxed and waned.

            “I want you,” he sighed, returning his lover’s kiss.  “I want all of it.  I want you to take me.  Now.”

            Aramis flipped the other man over and onto all fours as if the latter was a rag doll.  His mind was cataloguing several needs and circumstances as his hands traveled inside his lover’s clothes and pressed into the soft, warm valley of chest hair underneath his fingers.  First, he needed Athos to be naked for him… immediately.  Second, it was still rather chilly and he didn’t want his mate to get ill again.  (At the thought of Athos as his “mate,” Aramis suddenly got, if possible, even harder.)  Third, he was sure it had been a while since Athos allowed anyone near his dorsal flank, which finally brought him to number four - they had ridden out into the valley unprepared.  All of this amounted to one simple fact.

            “Oh my god,” Aramis sobbed into his lover’s back.  “I’m going to really hurt you.”

            “Get control of yourself, man!  I still have to ride back to Bragelonne!”

            Aramis realized he was going to have to use nature’s lubricant:  his own spit.  This option always seemed somewhat undignified to him, even in this state of seemingly bestial arousal.  Nonetheless, this Daphne had to be claimed before she turned into a tree.  He spat into his hand.

            “Oh sweet Jesus!”  Athos exclaimed, throwing his head back, and only getting it caught in the grip of Aramis’s free hand.

            “Inappropriate,” the latter whispered into his ear, and gave another gentle tug to his hair, bringing their faces closer together.  A groan escaped Athos.  “I’m trying to be nice.”  Athos groaned again at this reassurance.  “Relax,” he was commanded.  “Let go.  It’s fine.  You love it.”

            “Oh…. god…” Athos moaned again, as he felt his insides being stretched by slender fingers.  The mouth next to his ear gave him a gentle kiss right behind the earlobe and shushed him again.

            “I love you,” Aramis whispered, losing his mind from all this preparation and delayed gratification, needing to be buried to the hilt inside the man whose body he was pressing so close to himself.  “Surrender to me.”

            “Yes,” came the halting response, and Athos reached up and wrapped his arm around the back of Aramis’s neck.  He was pushed forward again, and probably would have hit the ground with his face if the man behind him had not also been doing his utmost to control his flailing body parts like the marionette he felt himself to be.  For with the acquiescence of surrender, Athos seemed to have surrendered all of his faculties.  He was being entered and he felt fingers digging into his flesh just around his hipbones, exactly where he was anticipating hand-shaped bruises to appear later.  He was finding it difficult to get any kind of purchase on the ground.  His ear recognized the sound of the slap before the pleasant pain radiated and registered in his brain as his lover once again asserting his dominance.  Instinctively, a moan of desire escaped Athos’s lips, which resulted in him being slapped again, and with a greater force.

“Don’t hurt your hand,” Athos taunted, bracing himself for the unavoidable assault and hiding his smile from Aramis.

            “Shut up, bitch!” the other man thrust violently into him.  “I’ll do whatever I want to you!”

            “Yes, please,” Athos whispered, predominantly to himself, and pushed back against the man behind him. 

The sensation itself, of his lover riding him so hard, was intense enough, and Athos suspected he was probably going to climax from that alone.  But it was that little triumphant thought that came into his brain just as Aramis leaned over and called him a “filthy whore,” that maybe, just maybe, he was actually still the one in control, that really pushed him over the edge, causing his muscles to spasm around his lover’s shaft.

            “Jesus Christ and all that is holy!”  Aramis was not expecting that, and he found himself collapsed on top of the other man, panting and disoriented, his hands still holding onto to the smooth, warm skin of his lover’s hips.

            “Hmph, blasphemy,” Athos mumbled into the grass.

            “My _God_ , I love you.”

            “I know,” Athos said, his words still muffled by the grass underneath them.  “You’re here, aren’t you?”  Aramis grunted something unintelligible.  “And you always say these really romantic things to me when you’re inside me,” Athos added with a shade of amusement.

            Aramis had no plans of moving, as his lover’s back seemed like a perfectly reasonable pillow to him, and he absentmindedly caressed the bare ass that he had been holding in his hands.  Mmm… lust, he happily thought.

            “You know, now that you’re no longer a soldier,” he spoke, with his eyes closed, “I actually think I look forward to watching you age.”

            “I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you,” Athos snickered, “but I’m ageless.”

            Aramis gave a little grunt of assent.

            “Yes, you’re not bad for thirty-four.”

            “ _Dick_.”

            “I love you.”

            “Then prove it by getting off me.”

            Aramis rolled off, but pulled the other man tightly into his arms and pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth.

            “I’m scared because I don’t know how long you’re going to stay,” Athos confessed, abruptly.  “Just long enough for me to forgive you, for example?”

            “You know the answer to that,” Aramis whispered, pressing his arms more tightly around the other man’s torso, feeling a blissful heat emanating from the curve of his lower back.

            “I really don’t.  I don’t even think _you_ know the answer to that.”

            “I’ll stay as long as you want me here,” Aramis replied, sounding decisive.

            “Forever then?”

            “You’ll get sick of me before then.”  Aramis smiled and gave his lover another quick kiss.

            “Maybe.  But I won’t admit it.  I am a very stubborn man.”

            “I… love you,” was the only thing Aramis could think to say under the circumstances, and he burrowed even further into his lover’s arms.  He felt himself drifting off.  A light breeze finally blew past them, ruffling their clothes, but rather than making him more alert, it only lulled him to sleep more.  There was a sense of complete capitulation in their little camp.

 


End file.
